The Sea Queen and the Horse Lord
by N7PhoenixFox
Summary: Short tale of how Éomer king and Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth came to be together after the War of the Rings
1. Chapter 1

The Sea Queen and the Horse Lord

 **Beginnings…**

Rumours flew like the wings of a hummingbird, from the rolling lands of Rohan to the white stone walls of Minas Tirith. Along the Anduin, the King of the Horse-Lords rode to the sea city of Dol Amroth. Prince Imrahil had invited Éomer King, who he had befriended at the march to the Black Gates, to visit the cliff side city Dor en ernil; lands of the Prince.

The journey of Éomer king however, was not why the people whispered. For Imrahil had a daughter. Tales of her beauty preceded her, though she rarely left her home. The lady Lothíriel had not even attended the crowning of King Elessar, nor had she attended when her cousin Faramir wedded the shield-maiden Éowyn.

She was an oddity, though nevertheless one of the most prestigious choices for a wife, and Éomer king was in need of a Queen. Many waited, from the workers in the inns, to the highest nobles in the stone halls of Minas Tirith, to see if the match would be made.

They wondered if the King of the Horse-men could tame the sable haired beauty, whether he would take her from the cliffs of her home and bring her out into society for the keen eyes of those interested; those who wished to see for their own eyes what made her strange, and why she would not leave her home.

* * *

Waves of sea foam crashed upon the sands of Dol Amroth. Below the cliffs of her home, the Lady Lothíriel rode her alabaster white mare, Aiglos, whose hooves beat against the flaxen sands as surely as the incoming tide. The spray from the water bespattered her face and lashes as the sea breeze whipped her braided hair in a trail of black silk. A smile graced her lips, as the shadows receded from her eyes. If but for a moment, she was free of her duties and the darkness which had shrouded the world.

Once she reached the end of the beach, where darkened rocks jutted from the cliff side, she tightened her gloved hands on the reins, and Aiglos turned easily with a whinny which brought a laugh from betwixt her weather buffed lips. Her mare appreciated their time away from the castle, as clearly as Lothíriel did herself. The time for her wildness had to be cut short on that day however, for her father awaited guests and she must ready for the evening meal before she was discovered gallivanting in her riding wear; coal coloured leather boots, nut-brown jodhpurs and a royal blue tunic.

As Lothíriel made one last gallop across the sands, she spotted a rider atop the hills beside the cliff wall where the road to the castle above met the hidden beach where she escaped to. There appeared to be a group of riders, though one was prominent at the forefront as he sat upon a large grey steed; a war-horse. The colours the company wore were shamrock green accented with gold. Wild manes of light hair escaped from beneath their steel helmets.

A sinking feeling struck her, as if she had been a skimmed pebble which had begun its decent to the sea floor. The smile dropped from her face, as the head rider took her in from beneath his tailed helmet. A leather jerkin of russet red covered his large frame, and he sat in the saddle with the experience of a man who was born for it.

The deduction as to the riders identity was quite simple, but Lothíriel had been sure her father expected the King of Rohan to arrive towards sun-down. She panicked, having been observed during one of her impulse rides, the stains still marred her tunic from her exploration of the rock pools as Aiglos waited below, chasing the waves back and forth. Though she did not allow this to show, even as Aiglos sensed her sudden change in mood and jumped to the side, as if the sands were hot coals and burnt her hooves.

Perhaps the best option would have been to hail the King of Rohan, but instead Lothíriel cried, "Fly, Aiglos," and her mare carried her up the hill path on sure footing, passed the King of the horse-men whose expression she did not look to see. Lothíriel did not stop until she reached the gates of her home, the greyed castle upon the cliff.

* * *

 _Aiglos – Sindarin – Icicle_

 **My original novel: Fated Rising is uploaded unedited to chapter ten on Inkitt and Wattpad. Follow FatedRisingSeries on tumblr for updates and artwork. Currently in the process of editing for publishing sometime 2017/2018**


	2. Chapter 2

The Sea Queen and the Horse Lord

 **Beginnings… Part 2**

Lothíriel dismounted in a hurry, handing the reins to the stable hand Hoen, whose eyes were wide in his head at her haste. Aiglos snorted loudly, as her grey tail flicked to the side. The stable lad jumped at the sound, though his hand remained securely on the reins. He was a diligent horse master, if young and introverted. A glance towards the wooden stables off to the left side of the gate showed they had been readied for the fabled horses of their guests. Fresh hay rested in the open stalls, while an oil lamp hung to give the darkened space light.

"M-My lady," he stuttered, flustered at her sudden appearance and unladylike dismount.

Genuine almond eyes in a sun worn face followed her movements. His father was from the north-west, which left the young man with an accented Westron. It furtherly served as a reminder of who exactly would be fast approaching the castle gates. If the King of the Horse-men hadn't fallen from his mount in shock, that was, though she disbelieved a man as made for the saddle as the King of Rohan would have lost his sitting.

"Heon," she turned to leave, removing her leather gloves. "See to it that Aiglos is cared for, I must rush."

"Y-Yes, my lady. Of course."

The courtyard of cobbled stone had been freshly cleaned. One of the grounds keepers would have thrown buckets of water over the stone early in the morn, then someone would have gone over them with a hard bristled brush to sweep away the hay and mud which clung to the lines of mortar between the stone. As the ground had been cleaned, the rest of the courtyard had been cleared of any and all clutter, to ensure their guests only saw the very best.

Gripping her gloves in one pale hand, Lothíriel strode into her home as if the Nazgûl themselves were at her heels. The entrance hall had already been lit with candles, and the servants hurried about. With winter on the way, the days had begun to darken early. Lothíriel felt her heart beat wildly in her chest, as though the great smiths of Erabor hammered it upon their anvils of gold and fire. She reached up a hand to briefly touch her breastbone.

"Sister!" Amrothos called, and whilst the familiar sound of her brother's voice stayed her restless feet somewhat, she could not help but squeeze her dark eyes shut and let out a long breath. Her brother did choose his times.

He rounded on her from the stairs, "Why, dear sister of mine, you look as if you've seen a ghost!" The grin slipped from his face a moment after he uttered the words. Lothíriel could see the shift in her brother's eyes, the glaze as he no doubt recalled the battle of Pelennor fields where the King Elassar took over the boats of the corsairs, a siege of cursed ghosts at his command who spread over the battlefield as surely as the plague, or an unstoppable wave which sunk your ship out from under you during a storm.

"I am fine," she returned. Lothíriel almost reached out to take her brother's shoulder in her hand, but the haze in his grey eyes faded with the aid of her voice alone. To see the shadows in her brothers and her father twisted her heart, for she could not take the pain from them. A man's duty was to fight, to protect and to live with the horrors of war. Her duty had been to remain behind, to wait in helplessness, as her family risked the chance of being torn from her powerless grip.

"I must prepare for dinner," Lothíriel told him, offering up a small smile. "You know father will not be pleased if I turn up late, or better yet, with my hair smelling of the sea and looking like a birds nest."

The easy smile which crinkled her brother's eyes returned. He was her Amrothos when he did this, the brother who had gotten her into trouble more times than she could count. "We can't have father unhappy with you now, can we? It is dreadful when the two of you have those staring competition across the dinner table. Although, it may be humorous to watch our guests faces when they realise the two of you could turn the Bay of Belfala to ice with your gazes alone."

Lothíriel was aware of her need for haste. Her brother's mention of the King of Rohan once more brought the worry which had come with their guest witnessing her impulsive ways. She slapped Amrothos' arm with her gloves half-heartedly. "I am sure father will be pleased to hear you compare him to a natural disaster."

Amrothos threw his head back and laughed. "That is exactly what you and father are."

"I am going now," she assured her brother, as she took to the stairs. Lothíriel could still hear Amrothos chuckling to himself as he walked on.

She climbed the stairs, to the highest part of the castle where her rooms were, in the tower of her family's ancestral home. Those months when her father and brothers had been away, protecting the White city of Minas Tirith, she had remained to lead the city of Dol Amroth in her father's stead. He had not expected her to actively rule, but she had taken her duty very seriously, as the concern for her family ate away at her from the inside.

Lothíriel had returned to her rooms to sleep often in the early hours of the morn, and she'd not even had the mind to change her clothes before she collapsed onto the bed. It had been the only way she could sleep, for fear of when she woke, word would be received of her families' deaths or that darkness was already upon them; for then it would fall to Lothíriel to protect her people from a foe they had no hope of defeating.

High up, she could not hear the fanfare of the King Éomer's arrival, and for that she was grateful. Lothíriel crossed her room, to her large cupboard to select a suitable dress from the evening meal, and her introduction to the King of the Horse Lords. She would have to pretend the King had no seen her, while hoping he did not mention the event to her father. Even if he spoke of it in jest, her father would not be pleased.

Her hands paused on the varied materials of her dress collection. Lothíriel had heard tales of King Éomer from her brothers. They valued him as a friend, and spoke highly of his skill as a warrior. She had even heard that their new King Elassar considered the King of Rohan to be his brother.

Though the people of her city were used to her ways, she had been surprised to hear the conversation of a few ladies as she perused the markets with her guards. King Éomer searched for a wife, for he was the last in the line of House of Eorl and needed an heir.

Lothíriel was not blind, nor ignorant as her father and brothers sometimes thought of her. They had tried to shelter her, after her mother's death, but she refused to be docile. To sit away her life behind a window, with an embroidery circle in her hand. The people of her city waited with bated breath to see if King Éomer would enter a negotiation for her hand.

The news had come to her like a blow to the gut. She'd had her suspicions, nevertheless had chosen to believe her father only wished to offer a thank you to a friend who'd saved them during the battle of the Pelennor fields. Her fingers had tightened around the coin she had outstretched for the salted fish, which had caused the man behind the market stall to mutter nervously, "My lady Princess?"

Perhaps she were selfish, for Lothíriel knew how very much they owed Rohan and its people. If it had not been for the riders with their horns of the North, Minas Tirith would have fallen with her father and brothers within. Lothíriel did not wish to leave her home. She was an oddity, who had chosen to remain from the eyes of the Court. She loved the sea, her people and could not image being taken from it. Certainly not to a land she had never seen, with its snow topped mountains and rain storms.

Her maid, Clara, entered the room from the door behind her. "Oh, my lady! I prepared these dresses for you to choose from."

Lothíriel glanced at her bed, to the dresses she had overlooked while her troubled thoughts had been on the forefront of her mind. One was silver and the other rose red. Both were in the Gondorian style of tight arms, bodice and a long skirt with an under layer.

"Do they disappoint?" Clara continued, her head bowed as she crossed her hands before her.

"No, Clara," Lothíriel straightened to take in her maid. The girl was younger than her, and took certain things far too personally. She sighed, "They are both lovely. I simply wish to wear the midnight blue dress tonight."

"Very well, my lady." Clara dipped her head in a nod. "Would you like a bath run?"

"Yes," Lothíriel nodded, as she reached a hand up to her knotted braid. "That would be for the best."

* * *

A mane of the darkest black; the heirloom of a Númenor descendant. The startling hair colour had been the first aspect of the scene below to catch his eye. A thick braid had descended down her back, a gleam to the wind swept strands as it was wetted by the sea spray. The young females skin was fair, so fair we wondered if she had elvish in her blood line. Despite the tunic and breeches, there had been no way he would have mistaken her for a man.

The cremello mare below her had been fine of body, with strong shoulders and lean legs built for speed. Risen slightly in her saddle, he had watched the two of them gallop down the beach made of fine yellow sand grains. Far different from his home, with fields of gold and pine grass as far as they eye could see. Horse and rider had known one another for some time.

Éomer had never seen the sea. He had rounded the cliff side, expecting his first glance at the wide expanse of cobalt blue and sage green to arrest his attention in curiosity. Instead, his gaze had been drawn to her on the beach below, almost completely hidden from the road path. Waves lapped close to the mares hooves, before they were chased out into the mass of water once more, taking the glittering sands with it.

Without much thought, he had slowed Firefoot to which his riders followed suit behind him. Éomer had watched her a moment, realising it was not a gentlemanly thing to do, certainly not by Godorian standards but he had pondered if the black haired beauty was the daughter of his friend Imrahil. Tales of an odd princess had reached his ears, though he had not paid them any heed. Elfhelm had spoken to him numerous times in concern to his needing a Queen, an heir and how the Daughter of Imrahil might be a suitable candidate if he insisted on strengthening their ties with Gondor by choosing a Gondorian for his wife.

When the smile slid from her face, he felt it as if he had been the one to personally cause her unhappiness. Firefoot's ears had flicked backwards, as if he also sensed something amiss. Her mare skittered, mayhap because of him and his rider's presence. Éomer's hands tightened on the reins as his heart sped up. He had half expected the young lady to be thrown from the saddle, though he witnessed her keep control with much skill that seemed second nature, as an experienced rider would.

"Fly, Aiglos," she had cried, her voice almost carried away on the seas winds. As she rode passed him, her mare bearing her up the hill path as steadily as if they had done it many times before, he was left a little startled. After his many long years expecting the worst, he was not a man easily surprised. The last time had been when he found his sister, her face lifeless as she lay cold and still within the mass of bodies on the Pelennor fields. The memories alone stole the breath from his chest. For a moment, his sight was blackened with the rage he had once felt to have thought he'd lost his sister.

"My King?" Éothain asked, at his shoulder. His old friend and guard rode closer, pulling his own mount up beside Éomer. Éothain's voice brought him to the present, and with much effort, he allowed his shoulders to lower and his hands to unclench.

Éomer tapped his heel upon Firefoot's flank, and brought the reins to lead his horse and friend back onto the road, "It is nothing, Éothain. Come, Imrahil awaits us."

* * *

 _Many thanks to those who have followed, added to favourites and to Silverswath and Lydwina Marie for your reviews. They are very much appreciated. I had not anticipated the amount of people who would like to read this. More from Eomer in the next chapter._

 _Outlawwoman: Here is more. I hope it lives up to the first chapter._

 _Cremello - the word for a 'white' horse_


	3. Chapter 3

The Sea Queen and the Horse Lord

 **Beginnings… Part 3**

After a hasty bath, Lothíriel sat at her opal white dressing table by the large arched window in her tower room. Settled down her back, her hair dried by the slight breeze which entered through the open panes. In the dying light of the day, as the sun settled in the West, Lothíriel was able to witness the sunburst orb as it wavered on the edge of the sea. Soon it would descend below her view, casting the Bay of Belfalas into darkness. As it were, she had a few moments to take in the calm waves and the edge of the city below as it was cast in a flamed almandine hue.

Clara busied herself by brushing out Lothíriel's chosen dress. Lothíriel studied the piece from her wardrobe. The arms were tight up to the elbows, where midnight linen then billowed to flowing velvet of a lighter blue and the length fell passed her hands. A cuneate made up the front of the close bodice, with a silver lining showing through to create a decorated rim affect. A smooth skirt connected to the bodice a little higher than the hip, and it lacked a trail which was quite popular in Gondorian fashion, if she were to believe the gossip, for she had spent little time around other ladies in the White City. Lothíriel would have described the dress to be a mix of southern style, with a hint of elven. A fitting choice, as the Hill of Amroth in Sindarin had history with Elf-people throughout the ages.

Though as Lothíriel thought more deeply on the choice, she would admit to herself it was not so much the style, but the colour which had drawn her fingers to it. Midnight blue, lined with silver; the colours of her house. To match the swan of Dol Amroth, a proud symbol for her. The dress was a statement; both as a reminder to herself and to those at dinner that she was a princess of the sea and would not be easily swayed. Lothíriel was known to be as immoveable as her cliff home, a trait she received from her mother. Amrothos had not been mistaken, it often caused her to butt heads with her father; as a ship bow would crash into an island of rock, jutting from the choppy waters during a storm.

From her brothers and fathers second hand descriptions of events, Lothíriel could only guess at the personality of the King of Rohan. She did not believe him to be a man of frilly words, and empty promises nonetheless. Far from it, for she knew very well how the Rohirrim valued their oaths. Had it not been for the Horse-lords answer to the call for aid, Minas Tirith would have been lost. Keeping that in mind, Lothíriel would not be fooled into accepting his hand in marriage should he come to her wearing a false face. Lothíriel expected a man of honour, a warrior King and a man who had earned the respect of not only his people, but also those who dwelled in southern stone.

A daughter, and a wife should be compliant to the men in her life. Lothíriel had struggled with the concept. Erchirion would laugh, with his kind dark eyes that she was a strange species, though her family loved her very much. Even still, Lothíriel did not wish to cause problems for her father, and so she had chosen to stay away from the Court, where she would not accidently overstep her mark. Lothíriel would prefer to remain the subject of mystery, rather than the Princess who brought shame to her house.

"Do you wish to dress now, my lady? I believe the evening meal will start shortly."

Lothíriel rose, clutching her pale silk under dress as the evening chill lifted the hairs on her arms. Clara rushed to close the panes of glass in her window which were open, as Lothíriel shivered and brushed a finger over her dress. She was used to the sea winds, though the mass of her damp hair caused Lothíriel to be overly cold. Taking the material of her chosen dress in hand, she bunched the skirts and lifted it over her head.

"My lady!" her maid cried in dismay, having turned to find Lothíriel dressing herself.

Lothíriel shrugged her dress down, over her shoulders. Clara approached in time to lift her steadily drying hair from within the material, and settle it over one of Lothíriel's shoulders. Her maid would soon style it, as it would not be seemly for Lothíriel to wear it loose. She had heard that Éowyn, sister of King Éomer and the Shield-Maiden who had felled the Witch-King himself, wore her hair loose but for a braid around the crown of her blonde head. In Gondor, only woman married were allowed to wear their hair down outside of their family, and never in public. Queen Arwen wore her hair loose, which had inspired many Gondorian woman to try more daring styles, though having the full length free had yet to be appropriated. None would speak ill of either Queen Arwen or Shield-Maiden Éowyn for their choice however. Lothíriel thought with a small smile that none would dare.

"Will you lace the back please, Clara?" Lothíriel asked lightly, with a continued smile. She had no qualms of dressing herself, though she did not wish her maid to feel as if she wasn't useful. Lothíriel appreciated the work the young woman did.

Her maid seemed supplemented with the task, and Lothíriel tried to collect herself as Clara laced up the back of the dress. Once the ties were secured, Lothíriel moved over to her dressing table where she slipped on linen slippers to match the dress. Then she settled once more onto her wooden stool to allow her maid to brush, and braid her hair into a tight pattern at the back of her neck.

Lothíriel let her mind drift to the stool below her. Though her room was filled with odd trinkets and patchwork woollen blankets, it was the single piece of furniture to remain unpainted, leaving it notable against the white and harbour grey tones of her room. Made from larch wood, it had been taken from one of her grandfather's ships, crafted from the hull once the ship had been taken off the waters. Only a slight pillow was pinned onto the seat, merlot in colour while the pins were old gold. Her grandfather had hand-made it himself, and she had assumed it when her father had need for it no longer.

"There you go, my lady. Would you like some powder for your nose?" Her maid's soft voice brought her once more from her thoughts of the past.

"No, thank you, Clara." Lothíriel turned down the face-paint which was popular in Minas Tirith. She had received some as a present, and kept it on her dressing table though she rarely used it. Lothíriel felt the sea air was enough to keep her skin clear, and she did not like the feel of it on her face; heavy and itchy.

"You look beautiful, my lady Lothíriel," her maid smiled, pleased, though Lothíriel got the sense Clara wished to say more, but held her tongue to remain proper. Lothíriel could only presume it involved the rumours and King Éomer. She felt a frown form between her brows.

Not moments later, there came a knock at her door. Clara went to receive whoever it was, as Lothíriel remained by her bed, rather frustrated. Amrothos had appeared to accompany her to dinner, a large grin brightened his features while his deep grey eyes danced. While he and Elphir had inherited their mother's eyes, she and Erchirion had their father's dark blue eyes which almost appeared black. Amrothos did not speak a word, though he did not have to, Lothíriel knew her brother well enough to see the teasing glint to his eye. The reactions of her brother and maid irked her, as if she would become woolly headed over rumours of a proposal. One, she might add, might not even come to pass.

Lothíriel's hand settled on Amrothos' arm, and her fingers brushed the cool material of pale blue, with silver cuffs and collar. It appeared she had not been the only one to wear their families' colours, as her dark eyes swept over a jacket of silk. A fluttered of nerves rose within her, though Lothíriel told herself that Amrothos would be there. They had been close as children, being the youngest and some of the servants nicknamed them 'twins'. Though Lothíriel soon turned her gaze from her brother, to the stairs from her tower, and with each step she took, Lothíriel felt it reverberate in her heart.

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Éomer had ridden Firefoot into the courtyard, his personal Éored trailed behind him in formation. The group of riders slowed at his command, "Oþstillan!" While their banners of pine green whipped above them; the white horse of Rohan proudly displayed. Éomer was reminded, as his dark eyes glanced them, of the mix of the white horse and tree of Gondor during their distraction at the Gates of Mordor. They had stood shoulder to shoulder that day. He shook himself from those thoughts, as it would not do him well to forget he was King.

The courtyard was large in scale, made of wrought iron grey stone and reminded Éomer of his house in Aldburg. Though there was far more bustle. Overall, it was certainly impressive to see the stone castle atop the hill belonging to the Prince. The sea air swept through his travel-worn hair. In answer, he inhaled a deep breath, almost as if he could taste the salt which tinged the winds. It was not unpleasant, but nevertheless, it was not the crisp mountain air of the home.

The servants of the household stood in greeting, ready to assist his men. Towards the forefront of the group was Imrahil, whose silver hair was immaculate as his pearl toned jacket. Éomer thought his friend indeed looked to be a prince of the sea. As Éomer dismounted from Firefoot to greet Imrahil, his eyes caught sight of the cremello mare within the sizable stables, being brushed down by a competent horse master from a glace. It confirmed the woman had fled to the castle. Éomer wished to apologise to her, for having startled her.

Aiglos, she had called her mare. Éomer assumed it was Sindarin, a language of the elves, though he had little knowledge of it. He had been content to learn the tongue of the Rohhirim, and Westron. Those had been enough for a young man joining his first Eorl. His uncle, Théoden King and cousin, Théodred had been alive, and well, there had been no need for Éomer to believe he would ever be more than a simple eorlingas.

Imrahil approached, followed close behind by his youngest son, Amrothos. While his father's colour matched that of the lightening in summer. His third son, Amrothos was the night sky with his coal hair brushed back over his forehead, to rest at the nape of his neck. Dressed in the typical long tailed sea coat of the south, Éomer noted it was made from a fine, black tanned leather with an amethyst linen lining. The wealth of their family was evident in the cloth, though Éomer knew it was also practical. Amrothos had explained to him how the leather kept the water from soaking them through when they rode the waves.

During their march, Éomer had discovered that Amrothos had a humour, even when faced with sure death at the Black Gates. He had been concerned the humour related to the young man being reckless, though Éomer had seen first-hand that his doubts had been groundless. Amrothos was an experienced warrior who took battle deathly serious. Éomer had joked, afterwards that he never wished to get on his bad side, as Amrothos' skill with a rapier blade was impressive. While they had formed a friendship, he was completely different to Amrothos, as Éomer could not remember having time to develop an advanced humour.

"Éomer!" Imrahil offered out a hand, which he clasped. They were friends, and while Éomer knew Imrahil respected him, he was glad to forget the titles for a moment. After the prince released him, Éomer took Amrothos' arm in a warriors grip. From the wild look in his grey eyes, and the slight water dew on his dark hair, Amrothos had been out on the waves earlier that day. Éomer could not say he understood the pleasure in it.

"Imrahil, my friend," Éomer smiled, turning once more to the prince. "You have my thanks for allowing me to stay at your home."

"Nonenese," Imarhil returned, smoothly but genuinely. "It is the least I could do. Come," he followed the two men into their home, though the interior of the castle was palatial, Éomer could not prevent his eyes from searching out the woman with a mane of wild sable hair.

Amrothos caught his eye as Imrahil gave him a small tour, Éothain at his side and Éomer received the impression Amrothos was already laughing at him, having discovered the trail of his thoughts. Éomer shook this off, and was then lead to his rooms to get dressed before dinner. He would not wear his sweat streaked clothes for the evening meal. Éowyn would not be impressed if he presented himself any less dignified as a King should and he could not risk word getting to Ithilien, where she resided with her betrothed, the Prince of Emyn Arnen, Faramir. No matter his Kingship, Éomer still retained the right of mind to fear his sister's wrath.

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 _Thank you once more for followers, favourites and reviews:_

 _Lydwina Marie – They will meet properly in the next chapter! I promise._

 _Anon – It will indeed to interesting to see if she softens towards him, Lothíriel likes to write herself so only time will tell, and we will see what develops._

 _Oþstillan – Stop, cease, halt – Anglo Saxon (I can only assume this is correct as finding any Anglo Saxon translations is incredibly hard!)_

 _Tolkien once said that he could not write women well, but I believe he created some of the strongest and most memorable female characters I have ever read. I am able to put myself in the shoes of Lothíriel and Éowyn, to empathise with them. Their stories give me courage, along with many of the other characters – Bilbo, Sam and the company of dwarves being a few._

 _If you see any mistakes, I'd be grateful if you pointed them out for me to edit._


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